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ENOCH ARDEN 



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Alfred 'Tennyson, 



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KEW TOEK: 

Clakk & Matnakd, Publishers, 

734 Broadwat. 



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ENGLISH CLASSICS. 



Enoch Arden. 



BY 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 



EDITED FOR SCHOOL AND HOME USE BY 

ALBERT F. BLAISDELL, A.M., M.D., 

AUTHOR OF "study OF THE ENGLISH CLASSICS," "OUTLINES FOR THE STUDY OF 
THE ENGLISH CLASSICS," "FIRST BOOK IN ENGLISH LITERATURE." 




N E W Y O R K : Ni:.<:^k qf w, v a^^^^ 



Clark & Maynard, PuBLislnni^ 

734 Broadway. 



.A 



Copyright, 

1882, . 
By CLARK & MAYNARD. 



LIFE OF TENNYSON. 

Alfred Tennyson, one of the greatest poets of our times, 
was born in 1810 at Somersby, iu Lincolnshire, England, of 
which place his father was rector. He was the third of a large 
family, several other members of which shared with him in 
some measure the genius which has won for him his undisputed 
rank as the first English poet of his time. At the age of seven- 
teen, Tenuyson, in conjunction with his brother Charles, issued 
a small volume called " Poems, by Two Brothers," of which 
almost nothing has been jDreserved. While a student at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, in 1829, he gained the Chancellor's Medal 
by a poem in blank verse, entitled " Timbuctoo," in wliicli there 
is plainly to be seen some impress of his peculiar genius. His 
literary cai-eer, however, may properly be said to date from 
1830, in which year a volume appeared caHcd '' Poems, chiefly 
Lyrical." It contained many exquisite pieces, and clearly 
marked the advent of a ti-ue poet, yet it was not received with 
great favor by the public. 

Three years afterward another volume made its appearance, 
and it, too, though rich in poetic thought, failed to awaken 
public interest, and received unkindly criticism at the hands of 
the reviewers. For nine years thereafter the world heard 
nothing of Alfred Tennyson. In 1842, however, a third effort 
was made to win favor, by the publication of two volumes of 
poems. The effort was successful, the path to fame and fortune 
was open before him ; and to the encouragement he then 
received we are largely indebted for the splendid i^oems which 
have since proceeded from his pen. Onward from this time 
the reputation of the poet slowly but surely extended itself. 
In 1847, appeared "The Princess, a Medley ; " and in 1850, " In 
Memoriam," a tribute of affection to the memory of Arthur 
Hallam, the chosen friend of the poet In his earlier years at 
Cambridge. On the death of Wordsworth, in 1850, Tennyson 
succeeded him as poet-laureate. In 1855, appeared " Maud, 
and other Poems," which added nothing to the poet's fame. 
"The Idyls of the King," published in 1859, was everywhere 
received with enthusiasm. These poems at once took rank as 

3 



4 LIFE OF TEKNYSOlf. 

some of the noblest in our language. In 1864, Tennyson 
published a volume containing " Enoch Arden," one of his 
most finished and successful works; " Aylmer's Field;" a 
short piece, " Tithonus," remarkable for its beauty and finish. 
''The Holy Grail " and other poems appeared in 1870 ; and in 
1872, " The Tournament " and " Gareth and Lynette." During 
the period from 1869 to 1873, the second series of the "Idyls of 
the King " was published. In 1875, Tennyson published a drama, 
called "Queen Mary;" two years later "The Lover's Tale," 
begun, and a fragment printed, in 1833, and a second drama 
entitled " Harold." "Ballads," a score of poems, appeared in 
1880, since which time the poet-laureate has made occasional 
contributions to the leading periodicals. Tennyson's biography, 
even more than that of most authors, is given, as far as the 
public is coucenied with it, in the simple enumeration of his 
works. His poetry is pure, tender, ennobling. No blot, no 
stain mars its beauty. His verse is the most faultless in our 
language, both as regards the music of its flow and the nix 
displayed in the choice of words. As a painter, no modern 
poet has equaled him. His portraits and ideas of women are 
the most delicate in the whole range of English poetr3^ His 
language, although consisting for the most part of strong and 
pithy Saxon Avords, is yet the very perfection of all that is 
elegant and musical in the art of versification. 

The pleasure which his poetry gives springs largely from the 
cordial interest he displays in the life and pursuits of men, in 
his capacity for apprehending their higher and more beautiful 
aspirations, and in a certain purity and strength of spiritual 
feeling. In character he is modest and unassuming, and shrinks 
from publicity. 

Caroline Fox, in her "Memories of Old Friends," says that 
" Tennyson is a grand specimen of a man, with a magnificent 
head set on his shoulders, like the capital of a mighty pillar. 
His hair is long and wavy, and covers a massive head. He wears 
a beard and mustache, which one begrudges as hiding so much 
of that firm, powerful, but finely chiseled mouth. His eyes 
are large and gray, and open wide when a subject interests 
him ; they are well shaded by the noble brow, with its strong 
lines of thought and suffering." 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 1810- 

"Not of the howliug dervishes of soug, 
Who craze the braiu with then- delirious danfed, 
Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel leaves belong, 
To thee our love and our allegiance, 
For thy allegiance to the poet's art." — Loiigfeliwo, 



" Tennyson is endowed precisely in points where Wordsworth 
wanted. There is no finer ear, nor more command of the keys 
of language." — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



" Versification broken and irregular, but inexpressibly charm- 
ing; sometimes fantastic. Of the living poets of England, 
Tennyson at this time occupies the highest rank." — AUhoii. 



''Every stanza in his descriptive poems brings up a vivid 
scene to the least imaginative reader ; the earth, the sky, and 
the sea are to be seen in harmony with the feeling of the hour; 
and by their sympathetic aspect give dignity and intensity to the 
human Interest." — F. H. Uitdenvood. 



" To describe his command of language, by any ordinary 
terms expressive of fluency or force, would be to convey an 
idea both inadequate and erroneous. It is not only that he 
knows every word in the language suited to express his every 
idea : he can select with the ease of magic the word that is, of 
all others, the best for his purpose." — Rter Bayne. 



SBLECT^iNS FOR STUDY. 

The youug student of Tennyson should begin with several of 
the simpler poems, as "Lady Clare," ''Enoch Arden," "The 
Lord of Burleigh," and " Edward Gray," and gradually get used 
to the style before attempting to read the more difficult, as 
"The Princess," " In Memoriam," and " Locksley Hall," The 
following list includes the most widely known of Tennyson's 
poems, from which a selection may be made for school or home 
use : — 

" The Deserted House." " The Miller's Daughter." " Lady 
Clara Vere de Vere." "The May Queen." "Margaret.'^ 
" The Death of the Old Year." " Dora." " St. Agnes's Eve." 
"Edward Gray." "Lady Clare." "The Lord of Burleigh.'^ 
"A Farewell." "The Beggar Maid." Songs: "Come not 
when I am Dead," and " Break, Break, Break." " The Charge 
of the Light Brigade." " Enoch Arden." 

Advanced Study.— " The Lady of Shalott." "O^uone." 
"A Dream of Fair Women," and "The Lotus-Eaters." 
" Locksley Hull." " The Talking Oak." " The Day-Dream." 
"The Two Voices." "St. Simeon Stylites," and "Ulysses." 
"The Princess." "In Memoriam." "Maud." " Ode on the 
Death of the Duke of Wellington." ''Idyls of the King : ^'' 
"Enid." "Vivian." "Elaine," and " Guinevere." 

Second Series: "The Holy Grail." "Gareth and Lynette." 
"Pelleas and Ettarre." "The Last Tournament." "The 
Passing of Arthur," and " Morte d'Arthur." 

"Sea Dreams," "Tithonus," and "The Northern Farmer." 



REFERENCES. 

For any desired information concerning Tennyson and his 
writings, consult, besides the ordinary reference books, essays 
by Peter Bayne, Dowden, Hutton, and Bayard Taylor ; Bright- 
w^ell's "Concordance to Tennyson;" Stedman's "Victorian 
Poets ; " " N. A. Review " for January, 1863 ; Howitt's "Homes 
and Haunts;" and PoAvell's ''Living Authors of England." 
Taiue's " English Literature " has a valuable criticism on Ten- 
nyson. 

Among the most systematic critical studies on Tennyson are 
Tanish's "Studies of the Works of Tennyson;" Elsdale's 
"Studies ill the Idyls;" Japp's "Three Great Teachers;" 
Buchanan's " Master Spirits ; " Forman's " Our Living Poets ; " 
Robertson's " Analysis of In Memoriam ; " Gatty's " Key to In 
Memoriam ; " and Shepherd's " Tennysoniana." 

6 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



" Enoch Arden is a tnie idyl. It is a simple story of a sea- 
faring man's sorrows ; not aspiring to the dimensions or pom- 
pous march of the strain which sings heroes and their exploits ; 
but charming the heart by its ti-ue pathos, and the ear by a 
sweet music of its own. The poet indulges in no digressions, 
in no descriptions which are not required for its full compre- 
hension ; he rehearses no long conversations, and makes no 
unnecessary remarks of his own. On the one hand, there is no 
sentimental dawdling over the sad situations which occur in the 
narrative ; on the other, there is no hurry in the march, and no 
excessive compression of any of its portions. Among other 
things we have been struck by the delicate management of that 
slight infusion of the supernatural which adds dignity to its 
humble hero's fate. But if the laureate thus knows how to 
deal with the unwarranted beliefs of the simple, and how to ex- 
tract from them poetic embellishment, he also knows how to 
make a noble use of their religious faith. And it is not too 
much to say that some of the most beautiful passages in Enoch 
Arden are those in whicli Holy Scripture is reverently quoted." 
—BtackwooiTs Magazine, Nov., 1864. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a molder'd church; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall tower'd mill ; 6 

And high in heaven behind it a gray down 



4. Molder'd.— A. S. molde, duet, soil, earth. "The literal sense 
is crumbled."— »SX:^«^. To turn to dust by natural decay, to crumble, to 
waste away gradually. 

6. Down.— A. S. dun, a bill. Fr. dunes, pand-hills by the sea-side. 
Fris. dSh/ie, a hillock of sand driven by the wind. 

7 



8 ENOCH ARBEK. 

With Danish barrows ; and a hazel-wood, 
By autumn nutters haunted flourishes 
Green in a euplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 10 

Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, •** 

And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 15 

Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 20 

And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff. 
In this the children play'd at keeping house : 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 

While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
*' This is my house and this my little wife." 
*' Mine, too," said Philip, " turn and turn about; " 
When, if they quarrel'd, Enoch, stronger-made, 30 

Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 

And say she would be little wife to both. 

7. Danisli Barro'ws.— Saxon, ftforg', a mound, a hillock: an ancient 
tumulus. It is the same as borovgh, biirg, hv/iij, etc. A mound either of 
stones or earth over the jD^aves of warriors and nobles, especially those 
killed in battle. These mounds are quite common in parts of England 
once ruled by the Danes. 

17. Swarthy.— From the action of the salt water of the ocean upon 
the threads of the nets. 



ENOCH ARDEK. 9 

~ But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 

And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 

Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 

On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 

But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 

Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 

But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not. 

And would, if asked, deny it. Enoch set 

A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 

To purchase his own boat, and make a home 

For Annie ; and so prosper'd that at last 

A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 

On board a merchantman, and made himself 

Full sailor; and he thrice had plucked a life 

From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas ; 55 

And all men looked upon him favorably ; 

And ere he touched his one-and-twentieth May, 

He purchased his own boat, and made a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way up 60 

The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide. 
The younger people making holiday. 

With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 65 

Went nutting to the hazels, Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climbed the hill. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 70 



69. Prone.— Lat. ^'ww/s, bending forward, inclined towards, slop- 
ing. Tlie sparse vegetation of tiie sea-shore becomes stunted as it 
approaches the sand-hollows. Hence the poet uses the figure, "to 
feather." 



10 Eiq^OCH ARDEK. 

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 

That burned as on an altar. Philip look'd. 

And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 75 

Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd 

And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 

Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 

There, while the rest were loud with merry-making, 80 

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 

Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years. 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 85 

And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children: first a daughter. In him woke 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 

And give his child a better bringing-up 90 

Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward : for in truth 95 

Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face. 
Bough-reddened with a thousand winter-gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 100 

Far as the portal-warding lion- whelp. 
And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 105 
97. Osier.— Fr. osier, a willow, willow twig, wicker basket. 



ENOCH AKDEN. 11 

Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 

Open'd a larger haven: thither used 

Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 

And once when there, and clambering on a mast 

In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 110 

A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 

And while he lay recovering there, his wife 

Bore him another son, a sickly one: 

Another hand crept too across his trade 

Taking her bread and theirs; and on him fell, 115 

Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying tlius inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 120 

And her, he loved, a beggar ; then he pray'd 

"Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 125 

E,eporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 

Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 130 

And Enoch all at once assented to it, 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 135 

And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 140 

136. Offing.— The part of the visible sea remote from tlie shore. 
Merely formed from off (above) with the noun-suffix iiig. 



12 ENOCH ARDEI?^. 

He knew her as a horseman knows his horse — 

And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 

Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 

With all that seamen needed or their wives — 

So might she keep the house while he was gone. 145 

Should he not trade himself cut yonder? go 

This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice — 

As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 

Become the master of a larger craft; 150 

With fuller profits lead an easier life. 

Have all his pretty young ones educated, 

And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all, 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 155 

Nursing the sickly babe, her latest born ; 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feebled infant in his arms 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs. 
Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike, 160 

But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 165 

But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go, 170 

He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her cliildren, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

160.— Appraise .—Lat. 2)reiiam. Fr. prix, a price value ; apprecieiir, 
to rate, esteem. 



ENOCH AiiDEH. IS 

For Enoch parted with -his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 175 

To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 180 

Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand — 
The space was narrow — having order'd all 185 

Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he. 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 190 

Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 195 

Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said, 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean heartli and a clear fire for me, 200 

For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, " And he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one — 
Nay— for I love him all the better for it — 
G.od bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 205 

And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 210 

And almost hoped herself ; but when he turn'd 



14 EKOCH ARDDK. 

The current of his talk to graver things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 

Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 215 

Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you are wise; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 220 

" Well, then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) ; get you a seaman's glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 225 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 230 

Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is he not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His: He made it." 235 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 240 

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
*' Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child 
Remember this? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 

231-235,— Cf. I. Peter v. 7 ; Heb. vi. 19 ; Ps. cxxxix. 9 ; Ps. xcv. 5. 



EKOCH ARDEN. 15 

But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 

A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 245 

Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 

His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 250 

She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not; and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 255 

She watch'd it, and departed weeping for hira ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
She set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 260 

To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding " What would Enoch say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 265 

And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She f ail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and thus 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 270 

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often called her from it, 275 

Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering — ere she was aware — 



16 ENOCH ARDEK. 

Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 280 

The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 285 

Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
*' Surely," said Philip, ''I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ; " therefore went, 
Passed thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 290 

Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Entered ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 

But-turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 295 

Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 
He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply, 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 300 

His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He sets himself beside her, saying to her, 

"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband ; I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 305 

For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely? not to see the world — 
For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal 310 

To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 315 



EKOCH ARDEJS". 17 

If he could know his babes were running wild 

Like colts about the waste. So, Annie now — 

Have we not known each other all our lives? 

I do beseech you by the love you bear 

Him and his children not to say me nay — 320 

For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 

This is the favor that I came to ask." 325 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answered, " I cannot look you in the face, 
I seem so foolish and so broken down ; 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down; 330 

But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 
rie will repay you: money can be repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 335 

" Then you will let me, Annie? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose and fixt her swimming eyes upon him. 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face ; 340 

Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately. 
And passed into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 845 

And bought them needful books, and every way. 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake, 

343. rcarih .— An iiiclosure, a yard, a garden—" this .c^nrth most dulc§ 
and redolent."— Z'M/iftrt/'. 



18 ENOCH AEDEN. 

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 350 

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 

And seldom crossed her threshold, yet he sent 

Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit. 

The late and early roses from his \yall, 

Or conies from the down, and now and then, 355 

With some pretext of fineness in the meal 

To save the offense of charitable, flour 

From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind. 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 360 

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 365 

To greet his hearty welcome heartily : 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him 
And called him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 370 

As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seemed to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far-end of an avenue. 

Going we know not where ; and so ten years 375 

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood, 380 

And Annie would go with them ; tlien they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they called him) too. 
Him like the working bee in blossom dust, 

355. Conleg.— Rabbits. Plural of cony. 

358. Whistled.— The shrill noise made by the wind as it blow through 
the wings of the windmill. 



ENOCH ARDEK. 19 

Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him, 385 

" Come with us, Father Philip," he denied; 

But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 

He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 

For was not Annie with them? and they went. 390 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her; and sighing, " Let me rest " she said: 395 

So Philip rested with her well-content : 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 400 

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each othe.r 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 405 

Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood." 410 

'* Tired, Annie? " for she did not speak a word. 
"Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
" The ship was lost," he said, " the ship was lost ! 415 

No more of that? why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said, 
" I thought not of it: but — I know not why — 420 

Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie there is a thing upon my mind. 
And it has been upon my mind so long, ' ** 



20 ENOCH ARDEN. 

^'hat tho' I know not when it first came there, 425 

I know that it will out at last. Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: 430 

I cannot help you as 1 wish to do ' 
Unless— they say that women are so quick, 
Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
1 wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 435 

A father to your children ; I do think 
They love me as a father; I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife. 
That after all these sad uncertain years, 440 

We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours ; 
And we have known each other all our lives, 445 

And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answered Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
" You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 450 

Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask ? " 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " O," she cried, 455 

Scared as it were, '* dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long; 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little 1 " Philip sadly said, 460 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little. " ' ' Nay, " she cried, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 21 

" I am bound; you have my promise — in a year : 

Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ?" 465 

And Philip answered, " I will bide my year." 

Hero both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day. 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose, 470 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil : 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, " Annie, when I spoke to you, 475 

That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, " I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were. 
While yet she went about her household ways, 480 

Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " she ask'd. 485 

*' Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 490 

A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 495 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse. 
Trying his truth and his long sufferance 500 

Till half-another year had slipt away. 



22 ENOCH ARDEK. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 505 

Some that she but held ofi to draw him on ; 
And others laugh' d at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 610 

Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 515 

And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on h^r 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 530 

That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch, is he gone ?" 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 525 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palm-tree." That was nothing to her: 
No meaning there : she closed the book and slept ; 530 

When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun ; 
" He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is singing 535 
Hosanna in the highest ; yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 

529. '* Under a palm-tree, *»— It was under a little wood of palm- 
trees that the prophetess Deborah dwelt between Ramah and Bethel. 
Judges iv. 5. 



EI^OCH ARDEI^. 23 

Whereof the happy people strewing cried 

' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke, 

Resolved, sent for him, and said wildly to him, 540 

''There is no reason why we should not wed." 

'• Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes, 

So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 545 

Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 

But never merrily beat Annie's heart, 

A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 

She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 

She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 550 

Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 

What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 

Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch 

Fearing to enter; Philip thought he knew; 

Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 555 

Being with child ; but when her child was born. 

Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 

Then the new mother came about her heart, 

Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 

And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 560 

And where was Enoch ? Prosperously sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 565 

Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of Heaven came continually 



539. «« Hosanna in tli© lilghest."-Cf. Matt, xxi, 9; Mark xi. 
10 ; John xii. 13. 

563. Biscay. -The storms which sweep across the Bay of Biscay are 
noted for their severity. 

569.— Refers to the trade winds of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, 
which blow steadily for months in one direction. 



24 EKOCH ARDEK. 

And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 570 

Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 

Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 

A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home- voyage ; at first indeed 575 

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figurehead 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows ; 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 580 

Then baffling a long course of them ; and last 
Storms, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of ' ' breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 585 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars. 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
liich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 590 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, 595 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 600 

Lay lingering out a three-years death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 



ENOCH ARDEH. 25 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 605 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's warning, " wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to heaven, 610 

The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The luster of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd round the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 615 

And glories of the broad belt of the world. 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever heard a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 620 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 625 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 630 

The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, 635 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise— but no sail. 



605. Fire-liollowiii^.— Ignorant of the nse of tools, savages were 
wont to hollow the trunks of trees by fire in order to fashion their 
canoes. 

613. Convolvuluses.— Lat. convolvuere, to roll or wind together. 
A genus of plants comprising many species, especially in the tropics. 



26 EKOCH ARBEK. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A pliantom made of many phantoms moved, 640 

Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things, and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 

The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 645 

The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 
The peacock yew-tree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 650 

And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, though he knew not wherefore, started up, 655 

Shuddering, and when the beauteous, hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Let's none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 660 

Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 665 

Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: 670 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipi)ing from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 



IlNOCH ARDEK. 27 

In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores 675 

With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge 

Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary, 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd, 680 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 685 

Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 

Whom, when their casks were filled they took aboard : 

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 

Scarce credited at first, but more and more 690 

Amazed and melted all who listcn'd to it ; 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home : 

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 695 

Came from his country, or could answer him. 

If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays. 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 700 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 

And that same morning officers and men 705 

Levied a kmdly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 710 

But homeward — home — what home? had he a home? 



704. Ghostly AValll— Somo parts of the English coast are honnded 
by steep, high cliffs of chalkstone, which have a "ghostly" appearance 
from the sea. 



28 EKOCH AEDEK. 

His home he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 

Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm, 715 

Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 

Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray; 

Cut off the length of highway on before, 

And left but narrow breadth to left and right 720 

Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 

On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped 

Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 

The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 

Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 725 

Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 

Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 

His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 730 

Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were- born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking " deadT)r dead to me ! " 735 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 

He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 740 

Who kept it : and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 745 



721. Holt. — A grove or forest. "A holt or c^ove of trees about a 
house." Tiltli.— Tilla.f,a% cultivated land; the i)roduce of tilling. 

" Full tilth and husbandry." — Shakespeare. 



ENOCH AEDElSr. 29 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken— all the story of his house. 750 

His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 755 

No shadow past, nor motion ; any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller: only when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 
He shaking his gray head pathetically. 

Repeated muttering " Cast away and lost ;" 760 

Again in deeper inward whispers "Lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
*'If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 765 

Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below: 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 770 

Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 775 

Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward; but behind. 
With one small gate that opened on the waste. 
Flourished a little garden square and wall'd : 780 



30 ENOCH AKDEIT. 

And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 

A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 

Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 

But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 

Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 785 

That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnished board 
Sparkled and shone : so genial was the hearth ; 790 

And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 795 

Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 800 

The mother glancing often towards her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 805 

His wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 810 

Lord of his rights and of his children's love — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 815 

783. Shingle .—A walk made of wooden tDeg or planks. " Shyngled 
ship "—ship made of planks. 



ENOCH ARDEN". 31 

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 820 

Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Ci-ept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber door, 835 

Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 830 

*' Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? 
God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 835 

A little longer; aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 840 

Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature failed a little. 
And he lay tranced : but when he rose and paced 845 

Back towards his solitary home again. 
All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
' ' Not to tell her, never to let her know. " 850 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the wiU, 



32 ENOCH ARDEN. 

And beating up thro' all the bitter world. 

Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 855 

Kept him a living soul. "-This miller's wife," 

He said to Miriam, " that you told me of, 

Has she no fear that her first husband lives? " 

" Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear enow! 

If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 860 

Why, that would be her comfort : " and he thought, 

"After the Lord has called me she shall know. 

I wait His time," and Enoch set himself. 

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 

Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 865 

Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 

At lading and unlading the tall barks, 

That brought the stinted commerce of those days; 

Thus earned a scanty living for himself; 870 

Yet since he did but labor for himself, 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 

Whereby the man could live; and as the year 

EoU'd itself round again to meet the day 

When Enoch had returned, a languor came 875 

Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 

Weakening the man, till he could do no more. 

But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 

And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 

For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 880 

See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 

The boat that bears the hope of life approach 

To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 

Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 885 

On Enoch thinking, ' ' After I am gone, 
Then may she learn I loved her to the last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 
" Woman, 1 have a secret — only swear 890 



EKOCH ARDEK. 33 

Before I tell you — swear upon the book 

Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 

" Dead," clanior'd the good woman, " hear him talk ! 

I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 895 

" Swear," added Enoch, sternly, "on the book." 

And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 

Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 

" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 

** Know him," she said, " I knew him far away. 900 

Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 

Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 

Slowly and sadly Enoch answered her ; 

"His head is low, and no man cares for him. 

I think I have not three days more to live ; 905 

I am the man." At which the woman gave 

A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

" You Arden, you ! nay— sure he was a foot 

Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 

" My God has bow-'d me down to what I am; 910 

My grief and solitude have broken me ; 

Nevertheless, know you that I am he 

Who married — but that name has twice been changed — 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 915 

Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 

His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 

His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 

And how he kept it. As the woman heard. 

Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 920 

While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 

To rush abroad all round the little haven, 

Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 

But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 

Saying only, " See your bairns before you go ! 925 

925. Bairn. = Barn, a true English word. A child. 

" Mercj'^ on us, a barne ! a very pretty barne ! ''^— Shakespeare. 

In an old poem the Saviour is called, " That blessed Barne that 
brought us on the rode." 



34 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Eh, let me fetch 'm, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 930 

Sit down again ; jnark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now. 
When you sliall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 935 

As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 940 

And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 945 

I am their father ; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 950 

And I have borne it with me all these years, 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone 955 

Take, give her this, for it may comfort her; 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 



He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 960 

That once again he rolled his eyes upon her 



EKOCH ARDE2S". 35 

Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch shimber'd motionless and pale, 965 

And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea. 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke,' he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a loud voice '' A sail ! a sail ! 970 

I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So passed the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 975 



Some General Questions on ''Enocli Arden/^ 

When was this poem written ? Was it founded on fact ? Did 
you ever read of a similar story? Have you any personal 
knowledge of a similar event? Is it at all probable? Do you 
suppose that similar events might have happened during the 
late war ? Is this poem popular ? How does it contrast with 
Tennyson's other poems ? Mention several poems which show 
the variety of his genius. Has Enoch Arden been extensively 
dramatized ? Does it make a good play ? W^hat can you say 
of the language and style in which it is written ? What unfa- 
vorable criticisms can you make either on the language, style, 
or stoi-y ? 

How will you sum up the first nine lines? Is this typical of 
any seaport town ? Is it especially true of the English seaports ? 
Show wherein this description would not apply to our own sea- 
coast villages ? Have we a perfectly natural picture of children 
playing on the sand ? If Annie loved Enoch, as the text says, 
why was she kinder to Philip ? What was Enoch Arden's first 
resolve, and what was his success ? AVhat is meant by the 
" Friday fare " which he furnished the Hall ? What was the 
origin of this custom ? What was the cause of his subsequent 
poverty ? How did he propose to help himself ? Wliy not re- 
sume his former occupation ? What was his plan for himself ? 
wife ? children ? How will jou explain Annie's dread forebod- 
ing that she would never see her husband again ? What curious 
verification of her foi-eboding followed, as the vessel sailed by 
the town? What was Philip Lee's kindness to Annie and her 
children, and why was he so generous V Was she justified in 
listening to Philip's offer of marriage, after the long absence of 
her husband ? What sign did she seek from the Bible,— with 
what result ? What was her interpretation of the '' palm-tree" ? 
Can you in any way associate it with the subsequent events ? 
How will you explain her dread foreboding, after her second 
marriage ? 

Where was the vessel bound in which Arden sailed ? Men- 
tion some of the figures of rhetoric used by Tennyson in de- 
scribing the voyage ? in describing the desert island ? What 

36 



SOME GEKERAL QUESTIONS OK ENOCH ARDEK. 37 

phantoms seemed to move before him as he watched for a sail ? 
How do you explaiu these phautoms? What did he seem to 
hear ringiug in his ears? Describe his rescue from the island 
by a vessel in search of water. How did Nature seem to sym- 
pathize with him, as he approaclied his native town? Describe 
how the news of the past was imparted to him by his landlady ; 
his glimpse of his wife and children, "What was his prayer? 
his resolve ? How were Ardeu's last days passed ? What was 
the real cause of his death ? Explain how the secret was finally 
revealed to Miriam Lane on his death-bed. How will you ex- 
plain his last words: "A sail! a saiW'' What may you infer 
from the last lines ? Do you think Enoch Arden did right iu 
keeping secret his identity until after his death ? 



REVIEW ANALYSIS FOR ''ENOCH ARDEN." 

Intended as a jjuide analysis for the studont in the first reading of the 
poem, and als^o as a blaclcboard exercise in review. 

Part I. 

1. Description of the sea}Xtrt toton : 

" Lon<,' lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm." 

2. The three children play on the shxrre : 

"Three children of three houses, — 

—played 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore." 

3. Enoch Ardeii's resolve,— his success,— marries Annie : 

" So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells." 

4. Happy years of married life,— subsequent viisf or tanes,— resolves to go 
on a foreign voyage : 

" And merrily ran the years,— 
Then came a change." 

5. Breaks the news to, Annie,— prejmrations and farewell to tvife and 
children ; 

— " hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way." 

6. Poverty,— Philip aids her and the children,— no tidings of her long 
absent husband,— Philip proposes marnage : 

— " lived a life of silent melancholy. 

—and so ten years, 
—and no news of Enoch came." 

7. The entreaty far a year''s delay,—" seeks a sign from the Italy Book,''' 
—finally marries Philip: 

" You have my promise, — in a year, 
—under a palm-tree. 
Merrily rang the bells, and they were wed." 

Pakt II. 

1. Enoch sails to the Orient,— wrecked on his return,— death of Jiis com- 
rades and subsequent life on the desert island : 

" A shipwrecked sailor waiting for a sail." 

2. Dreams of hom£, wife, and babes,— discovered and carried lu/me by 
a vessel seeking water and provisions : 

— " They landed him 
E'en in that harbor whence he sailed before." 

38 



SELECTIONS FROM TENKYSON. 39 

3. The story Minam Lane told him -seeks PhUip's house -what lie 
saw.-despair : _^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^.^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^,,„ 

His fingers into the wet earth and pray'd." 

4. His prayer for strength -loss of health —confides his secret and the 
story of his wanderings to Miriam Lane : 

"As this woman heard, 
Fast flowed the current of her easy tears." 

5. Ilis dying request —promise —death : 

" A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved ; and so fell back and spake no more : 
So passed the heroic soul away." 



SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON TO COMMIT TO 
MEMORY. 

" Hundreds of Tennyson's lines and phrases have become fixed in 
the popular memory ; and there is scarcely one that is not suggestive of 
beauty, or consoling, or heartening."— -B«ya/YZ Taylat\ 

Some of the most beautiful verses in our literature are found in 
LocMey Hall and Tlie Princess. Select also some of the best lines 
from The Deserted House, St. Agnes\^ Eve, and Tlie Brook. Commit to 
memory the whole or portions of the exquisite songs : "Break, break, 
break" "Flower in the crannied wall;" "Riug out, wild bells, to 
the wild sky," from Li Metnoriam ; "The Flower," and the follownig 
son-s from TJie Princess: "As thro' the land at eve we went; 
"Sweet and low, sweet and low," "The splendor falls on castle 

^*^ ^" "This is truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." 

" I hold, in truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things." 



" Flower in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies ;— 
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand. 
Little flower— but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is." 



40 SELECTIONS FROM TEi^KYSON. 



" I falter where I fii-mly trod, 

And, falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar stairs, 
Which slope through darkness up to God, 

" I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is lord of all, 
And faintly trust the larger hope." 



" Break, break, break, 

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in nie. 

" Oh, well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play I 
Oh, well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay I 

" And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill ; 
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

" Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crag^^, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me ! " 



I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve mj' banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come, and men may go^ 
But I go on forever." 



LANGUAGE LESSONS-GRAMMAR-COMPOSITION. 
A Complete Course in Two Books Only. 



GRADED LESSONS IN ENGLISH, 

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288 Pages, 16mo, Bound in Cloth. 



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JPlan.—The science of the language is made tributary to the a *t of expression. 
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Gratninar and Composition, taught tog ether. ^'We claim thit grammar 
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that both can be taught together in the time that would be required for either alone, 

A. Complete Course tu Grammar and Compoifitionyin only ttvo Hooks. 
— The two books completely cover the ground of grammar and composition, from 
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Method.— The author's method in teaching in these books is as follows : (1) The 
principles are presented inductively in the "Hints for Oral Instruction." (2) This 
mstruction is carefully gathered up in brief definitions for the pupil to memorize. 
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Authors— I'ractieal Teachers.— The books were prepared by men who have 
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Text-Book on Rhetobic ; 

Supplementing the Development of the Science with 
Exhaustive Practice in Composition. 

A COIJfiSE OP PRACTICAL LESSORS ADAPTED POR USE IN HIGH-SCHOOLS 
AND ACADEMIES AND IN THE LOWEE CLASSES OP COLLEGES. 

ij 

By BI^AI1S3-ER,I> KELLOG-G-. A.M., 1! 

Profeaaor of the English Language and Literature in the Brooklyn Collegiate 

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" Graded. Lessons in Englisfi ** and *^ Higher Lesaona in I^nglisK** 

In preparing this work upon Rhetoric, the author's aim has been to ! 
write a practical text-book for High-Schools, Academies, 'and the lowe^ 
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This work has grown up out of the belief that the rhetoric which the 
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tongue and pen. Hence all explanations of principles are followed by 
exhaustive practice in Composition — to this everything is made tributary. 

When, therefore, under the head of Invention, the author is leading 
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through the analyses of subjects and the preparing of frameworks, to 
the finding of the thought for themes ; when, under the head of Style, 
he is f anuliarizing the pupil with its grand, cardinal qualities ; and when 
under the head of Productions, he divides discourse into oral prose, writ 
ten prose, and poetry, and these into their subdivisions, giving the re- 
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^70 pages, IBmo, attractively hound in cloth. 

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